


Oh, to be Bold

by 8Clarify8



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Regency, F/M, Petyr is a dick, Regency Romance, Romance, SanSan Secret Santa, sansan
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-29
Updated: 2019-12-29
Packaged: 2021-02-27 08:14:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,340
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22013947
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/8Clarify8/pseuds/8Clarify8
Summary: Sansa Stark is feeling the social pressure of being a woman in an 1800's-esc Westeros and still not being married or agreed to any suitors by the time she turns 20; her resentment of the world grows even during the time of a grand ball to welcome family friends and newly appointed Duke's, especially as she dances with leering men who step on her toes, and others that steal her gloves. Even a moment of silence on a balcony away from the ball is interrupted... but this one is different than the rest; he doesn't seem to care at all about social structure, those dances, or that women were seen as inferior. He smokes and cusses like she isn't some dainty woman.No, Sandor Clegane was nothing else like those other suitors who bore and harass her.
Relationships: Sandor Clegane/Sansa Stark
Comments: 19
Kudos: 232





	Oh, to be Bold

**Author's Note:**

  * For [noboopforyou](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=noboopforyou).



> Story for SanSan Secret Santa participant noboopforyou! I’m sorry this has been late, as I am not your original Santa but a Secret Helper this year.  
> This is a loose 1800’s AU, since I’m also not terribly familiar with all the nuances of the time period I’m either glossing over some of the mannerisms or removing some aspects all together. So, I’m sorry if it seems a little too stiff or highly inaccurate— because it will be.  
> Prompt: A ball during Regency Era
> 
> I'm awful at writing Regency or Victorian Era fiction so I'm very sorry for the lack luster quality. 
> 
> Also Sandor is rather... a subdued version of his usual grumpy self.

**Oh, to be Bold**

“Mother you can’t be serious.” The shrill voice of Arya Stark floated through the thin walls as Sansa rolled her eyes, having been ordered to sit in front of her vanity with the three sectioned mirrors by her very excited (and rather overbearing) Ladies Maid, Veronica. 

“I see the youngest miss doesn’t want to go to the ball.” Veronica remarked casually as she fanned Sansa’s long red hair with sprinklings of water, not too much though since she didn’t want to take the curls out of Sansa’s hair. 

“She never does, never wants to do anything that involves fancier dresses than what she already wears.” Sansa remarked with a small smile, but she tried to have the venom of contempt in her voice. Truly, she was a little more than jealous of her young sisters’ ability to pass herself off as a man— even having a pair of men’s trousers that had been made specifically for her (by Sansa but no one needed to know). 

Even now as Sansa sat in front of the mirror and Veronica behind her she wished she didn’t have to be; she wished she didn’t have to get ready for another boring, awful ball with terribly dull people in attendance either kissing up to her or looking down their nose at her. 

No, Sansa wasn’t particularly looking forward to this one especially. Apparently, she was to meet a potential future suitor, the son of a Duke. 

“Careful, careful!” Sansa hissed at Veronica, sending the other girl glares through the mirror. “Those curlers you made me wear last night were ghastly.” Veronica rolled her eyes but conceded, trying to be a bit more cautious as she carefully wrapped the nobleman’s daughter’s hair. 

She pinned back most of the curls after having them twisted, centering them to the back of the Lady’s head. Veronica then started on the left out sectioned pieces, braiding them gently as she started to hum. 

Her hair was nearly done that then the door to Sansa’s more than modest rooms burst open, and as Veronica liked to describe the youngest Stark Daughter—a wild beast with wide eyes came rushing in, day attire astray as she climbed up onto Sansa’s four poster bed. 

“Sansa, Sansa! Tell mother I will not be joining this confounded ball!” It was Arya, straight brown hair awry, corset and bloomers showing from under her skirts. Sansa’s mother came barging into the room next, her own hair less than perfect. Why, the entire situation was pure scandalous, but Sansa couldn’t be bothered to care. 

She pretended though. 

“Oh of course you must go!” Sansa chirped in reply. “Why, if you don’t go it could mark father’s image. We have many important government officials coming tonight, you know.” 

Arya started to glare but with Sansa’s less than sneaky smile Arya paused. 

“Unless, of course, you happen to get terribly sick where you absolutely cannot muster the strength to wear your dresses.”

Arya smiled in reply, collapsing on Sansa’s bed in a dramatic fashion. 

“Oh, oh, Mother! How can I ever possibly go to the ball and embarrass our family while I’m so sick? I think I’ve caught the plague! Leech out my blood and bury me in daffodils.” 

She threw her arms over her eyes and wailed, “Mother, Mother!” 

Caitlyn Stark sighed irritably, placing her hands on her hips. Caitlyn’s tully blue eyes glanced between her two daughters, a frown firmly in place. 

“Oh, Seven give me strength.” She said irritably, coming up to inspect Sansa’s hair. “Hopefully you’ve got a suitable dress and you’re not going to be wearing your shift about once again.” 

Sansa gasped, cheeks aflame “Mother!” 

Caitlyn only raised her eyebrow in response. 

“I was delirious with sickness, surely you must forgive me.” 

Sansa herself was already dressed in her chemise, stockings, and drawers. Her corset was to be after her hair was finished. 

“It better be a suitable color.” Caitlyn remarked, opening Sansa’s standing wardrobe. Sansa hid her distaste for the question well; pulling at one of the curls that was left down. Veronica slapped her hand away. 

“It’s blue, Mother.” Sansa replied after a moment. “Powder blue.” 

Caitlyn seemed a moment of surprise. “Well then, I’m rather surprised you didn’t go for a blush pink, pearl white, or even a peach.” 

Sansa didn’t look at her then, knowing her mother was remarking on how Sansa had more than once turned her nose up at their family’s dominant color. 

Caitlyn closed the wardrobe and looked at Arya, still laying down on Sansa’s bed. “Come now, come now! You’ve got three options; either you put on a dress like your sister and find yourself a gentleman. You lay in bed all evening gripping and moaning like you’re sick as the devil as you claim to be, continuing your studies. Lastly, you put on your trousers and you don’t show your head till the last carriage leaves in the morning and we tell everyone you’re as sick as a dog and we might have to put you down.” 

Arya had already been up on her feet and nearly out the door by the time Caitlyn had finished, Caitlyn had gathered her skirts and her face was red as she started to chase Arya down once again. 

“Sansa, Sansa!” Caitlyn called once again before she left the room. “I’m expecting a suitor out of you tonight, young lady! Any older and you’ll be labeled as an old maid and we can no longer get you married off! You may be forced to live with one of your brothers if they let you.”

Sansa puffed out her chest, ready to argue with her mother and demand she go out with Arya and pretend that the Starks never even had daughters, but… 

But Sansa knew better. She was their prized daughter, beautiful like gemstones. She had plenty of suitors and offers but she had turned her back on them all. She knew her father’s reputation was fragile and important, him being an Earl and all that. 

They were all a little too much in the public eye for any of their liking; only Arya could get away with any of it. She was the most versatile of them all, with a plain face and plain brown eyes and straight, stringy brown hair that wasn’t particularly long nor short. 

She blended in with a crowd, with dirt on her face and no shoes she could be just another boy on the street working in the fields. She was versatile, and Sansa was jealous. 

Sansa had a duty to her father, her family, and she tried to do it well. Though, the hunger called to her. 

There was a silent resolve that filled her like ice in her veins after the flare of anger that consumed her, and it was a chill. 

Veronica finished her hair, pinning the braids in place with small gem crusted pins; Veronica then put more in Sansa’s hair hiding within the curls. 

Then was the time for the dress; it was the sort that had a steel wire hoop underneath with petticoats stacked on top of it. A flurry of fabric and careful placing as Veronica and Sansa didn’t want to mess up the hair that they had spent over an hour on already. 

At the lack of raised voices and stomping footsteps throughout the nearby halls and floors Sansa had to assume Arya had ditched her dress as soon as she could and climbed out the window into the wilderness beyond. 

Sansa vaguely wondered what sleeping in a barn was like, since Arya had come through the home more than once with straw and mud on her clothing and smelling like a horse. 

“Don’t worry Miss, I’m sure you’ll meet a very handsome fellow this evening who sweeps you off your feet.” Veronica fussed with the outermost layer of skirt, the silk over the top was lovely but it wasn’t wanting to lay correctly. 

Sansa was staring out the window to the setting sun instead though, feeling the brisk winter air as it floated into her room from the barely cracked open window, silently wondering how awful it must be to be free. 

* * *

  
The ball was private by invitation only, and it was probably the biggest of the century by sheer size but also all of who was in attendance. It was grand, with nobility from across Westeros coming to Winterfell in specific for the event. 

One of which was Lord Baelish, Baron of the Veil with Sansa’s aunt, a gaunt woman that was too thin to be healthy; but she smiled ever so dreamily at her new husband, flaunting him around to everyone who would look. 

Sansa terribly wished she didn’t have to be here; didn’t have to curtsey to every gentleman she was introduced to and certainly didn’t want to dance with any of them. She found them all terribly boring or self-obsessed; she even met Marquess Joffrey, and even though he was handsome he was a bastard (in attitude, not actual birth). 

Sansa kept those thoughts to herself, and she did genuinely try to enjoy herself. To see if any of these dullards were interesting in any sort of manner that she could possibly bear being a wife and mother to equally dull children. 

Joffrey wanted to dance with her, and at first it was fine but at one point he stepped on her foot again and she caught a certain look in his eye that sent her stomach dropping; after that she had conveniently found herself scarce. 

Sansa never liked hiding, she hardly enjoyed the connotations that disappearing from a ball would have; but the groping men and the malicious intent with Joffrey was worth the scandal in her mind. 

She hated this; Sansa found herself on a balcony in one of the wings that was off limits to party guests. It was here she let her face drop and let little tears well up in her eyes. 

This wasn’t a very fun party. Arya would’ve made it more fun, but she was gallivanting in the fields, finding brooks to splash in and holes to hide in. 

Sansa still felt the embarrassment from when her father made her sing in front of some of their guests earlier that evening as well, particularly in front of Joffrey and his family. Cersei, Joffrey’s mother, was a horrid woman with a toxic tongue and she couldn’t hold her liquor. 

She had once thought herself a decent singer, but with Cersei’s snide remarks Sansa had been shooed away. 

Her evening was rather spoiled after that. 

A door opened on the other side of the balcony, and Sansa had held her breath and pushed herself against the cold stoning of the wall to hopefully conceal herself against it and behind one of the large fern potted plants, one of the only kinds of plants that could survive in the harsh Northern environment. 

She heard heavy footfalls scraping against the stone, and she decided it must have been a large drunk guest who had gotten lost and just needed a breath of air for a moment. Not that she blamed them, isn’t that what she was doing?

Though he didn’t leave immediately like she originally thought, and instead she smelled the faint smell of tobacco. Sansa sighed, leaning her head back against the wall but wincing when the pins stabbed into her head. 

She desperately wanted to not have to deal with these pins, the dresses, the groping gentlemen. 

“You can stop hiding yerself.” The gruff voice spoke out, and Sansa’s heart stuttered in her chest. Carefully, she removed herself from the stone wall, walking out from the pillar and the plant with her hands folded gently in front of herself. Her chin was high, her shoulders squared, and (also to her embarrassment), her bosom was pushed up and presented for every gaping man to see. 

Oh, how she loathed these clothes. 

He was shadowed partly in the light of the hallway and the darkness of the night sky; even though the moon was out it hid in the clouds with the waning of a grin. 

She stepped forward more, her dress catching the candlelight and sparkling from some glass beads that had been woven in with the lace. 

He turned more then, no longer leaning over the railing but standing tall and upright, his hair tied back at the nape of his neck as it looked like he was a little too uncomfortable in the clothing he wore. She recognized his outfit as one from the military, a high ranking official but she didn’t know too many who were in the military. 

She could see the light dancing from his one good eye, but as she stepped only a breath closer could she see the giant, mangled scar that covered a quarter of his face. It was mended and patchy and went over his other eye. 

She was transfixed, standing below him more than seven feet away and yet she felt like she could touch him. 

“Ah, you’re the little bird now, aren’t ye?” His accent was prominent but not thick. 

“I suppose I am,” her voice was soft and filled with curiosity. “I’m sorry, ser. But I’m not quite sure I know your name.” 

He made a sound in the back of his throat like amusement as he held his pipe up to his mouth once again and stared off into the nothingness. 

“I’m no ser. No loss for you then, I imagine. No need to know a man like me, I assure you.” He turned away fully then and leaned back against the railing, blowing smoke into the world. 

_That_. That is what caught her attention. Sure, she would be more than happy to move along and find another dark corner to hide in, but… whoever he was, made her feel like she was insignificant. 

He didn’t treat her with the trepidation that usually came with her status; it seemed like he could care less about the whole social hierarchy that had been established. 

Astonishing. 

Not looking over her like she was a woman, not bowing to her like she was nearly royalty. He simply existed and seemed to have a distaste for it all. She knew him now, caught sight of him every so often around. He was usually alone save for a few instances she saw him next to Jaime Lannister, Joffrey’s uncle. 

She didn’t know his name, but she wanted to. 

“If I may be so bold..” She started gently, moving to also stand against the railing. 

“I won’t stop ya.” He said in her pause; already he was tired. Tired of women’s coy way of talking less they be improper. “Hell, speak your mind; I’m no gentleman and don’t really care for these stifling parties nor the way people tread about like they’re walking on fucking eggshells.” 

Sansa’s mouth was open, she opened her fan to hide it. Oh, this was marvelous.

“If you’re no gentleman than perhaps I can have your name?” 

“Colonel Sandor Clegane, Lady Sansa Stark.” He didn’t stand up straight when giving his name, and he barely took a glance at her. He was surprised to see that she was very close to him, and her eyes were large as she couldn’t help the smile that graced her face. 

“Why, you’re nothing like the stifling members of this awful ball.” She hid her face behind her fan once again. “If you’re no gentleman than I may not be a Lady, please, in our own company call me Miss Stark.” 

“If you wanted to be solely informal and improper… I could call you Little Bird instead if that’s what cha want.” He took another puff from his pipe and gave her another look from the side of his eye. 

“Why _Little Bird_ if I may ask?” 

“You just did, didn’t you?” He retorted back. He looked at her once again and one of her eyes was completely illuminated by the candlelight inside and he sighed. “When you were singing your pretty words for your father and those other Lord’s and Lady’s and whoever they may be, you sang like a bird.” He looked off into the darkness once again. “You sang like you were stuck in a cage.” 

Sansa felt her heart flutter, surely _this_ couldn’t be it. He _couldn’t_ be what she desired. He said nice things in a gruff voice, smoked like she wasn’t even there, and spoke like she wasn’t a noblewoman whose very presence could be scandalous. 

Oh-me-oh-my how Sansa’s heart did sing once he looked at her again. He smelled like whiskey, and she knew what that smelled like since once her and her older brother snuck into their father’s study and stole some. His eyes were like storms that Sansa was so familiar with, like the clouds circling overhead. 

“Are they battle scars?” she asked instead. There was a coldness as he hunched his shoulders a bit more on himself. 

“No.” Was all he gave, she was fascinated, purely, dangerously so. His hands were large, calloused, and gentle as he brought the pipe up one last time and blew smoke into the world once again. He banged it clean against the stone railing and tucked it back into his pocket. 

She didn’t want this moment to end if she was being honest. 

“You’re probably missed, all those suitors waiting to step on your toes and get a look down your corset.” 

She closed her eyes and turned her back to him then; “Let me be missed, I don't care for the attention I’ve been getting nor their boring conversations.” 

“You may not care for it, but you’ll get it whether you like it or not.” His voice cut through the chill of the night. She turned to look at him then, and she could see him take a deep breath in. 

“Who? The men who leer down at me?” 

“Aye, them. The men who want terribly too much, too. The men your father wants to impress so he’ll sell you like a broodmare, them too.” 

Her hair sparkled in the flickering candlelight and the softness of the snow that started to trickle down from the sky above, and her skin seemingly glowed— but she didn’t know that. He did though. 

He may not be the sharpest man on the battlefield with his partly scared over eye, but it still worked just fine. He could see her fire opal hair from across the ballroom, watching it weave and bounce amongst the crowd, watching it duck into hallways and out of sight. He could see her eyes sparkle like rippling water, and her skin that glowed under the candlelight. 

She held too much intelligence, too much knowledge behind those eyes that he didn’t know if he even could keep up with. Though he would be more than happy to listen to her sing for the rest of his life, personally. 

“You seem entirely too unhappy here,” he was emboldened by her closeness, her seeming eagerness to give him her attention. He carefully put his hand up and cupped her face. Her cheek squished into his hand as she leaned into it, the smallest ringlet of curl falling from its kept and tidy appearance to place itself right into her face. 

“Is it selfish of me to ask of you to continue to keep me company this evening?” His voice was soft, softer than he ever remembered it being. 

“Yes, entirely so. It’s downright scandalous for me to be in your constant company.” She contested, smiling against his hand. He started to move it, though she was quicker to bring one of her gloved hands up to keep his cupped to her face, at least for a moment longer. 

“One dance then?” 

She flicked her eyes up at him, eyelashes fluttering. Her lips parted for a breath before they closed again, and Sandor was a weak man. 

She smiled. “Yes, of course. How could I ever refuse you?” 

* * *

  
She knew there were whispers once she rejoined the ball proper, but the volume of them didn’t make them _whispers_ at all. She and Sandor passed one another once more, and she ducked her head for a moment to hide her smile. 

“You don’t dance an often lot, do you ser Clegane?” 

“I’m no _ser_ -” he retorted when he was close enough before being whisked away once again. “And I am _not_ a dancer.” He pratically shouted once he was close to her again. "I'm not drunk enough for this." She could hear him grumble to himself as they passed each other for the third time.

Sansa laughed, head tilted back and eyes twinkling as she twirled with the other ladies. The dancing was short and sweet, and her feet hurt but at least _he_ didn’t step on them. 

Yes, he was willing to mingle with guests and dance with her. He would do rather nicely. 

“Lady Sansa,” she was whisked away just as soon as the dance had been over with, someone had grabbed her upper arm and dragged her away from the dance floor. Sansa tried to look back, jumping up quickly to scan the crowd for Sandor since he was bigger than most other guests in attendance. 

She thought she saw him, but their eyes didn’t connect. 

She turned back to who was dragging her off so unceremoniously down one of the hallways away from the ballroom; her eyes widened when she saw her uncle’s tapered gray hair. 

“Lord _Baelish_?” Sansa’s voice was weak as he entered quickly into a room that had been blocked off from the rest of the party. He pulled her in and shut the door behind them, she was tossed into the room while he stayed to the door, holding it closed and his back to her. 

“Lord Baelish.” Sansa tried again, righting herself and bringing her fan out from the pocket of her dress. “I must ask that you return me to the ball at once, this is highly unseen.” 

“Do you know who that man is?” He questioned instead, his voice tight and grip on the door even tighter. Sansa paused as she looked at his hands and then at his tense shoulders. 

“I… had the pleasure of meeting him earlier, he says he’s a colonel in the military.” 

“That man may be a high-ranking officer in the military, my dear, but he’s a _killer_.” Petyr turned then, staring straight at her. Sansa took a small step back, gathering her dress in her hand and her fan in the other. 

“All men are killers as far as I’m concerned, _Uncle_.” She put emphasis on the formality of the word. He paused in his steps to get closer to her, but he continued past it. 

“He’s killed countless people, even before he was in the military. He was forced to join or be put to prison, that’s who you are spending your evening gallivanting with.” He was in front of her now, and they were eye to eye. 

Sansa had been a rather tall woman, or Lord Baelish was a smaller man, and this particular moment gave her a bit of satisfaction as she could see the slight annoyance in his eyes at her stature. His eyes cast down at her lips, and then even farther down at her bosoms. 

Sansa’s pleasant face she held onto slipped into a set frown as she snapped her fan in front of him, successfully startling him while also blocking his view. 

She fluttered her eyelashes in response to his twitching eyebrow. She snapped her fan shut after a moment, and she tapped it in her hand as she stepped toward him. 

“Your concern for me is _appreciated_.” She started, eyes searching his own. “Though not _needed_.” 

His tight-lipped smile fell as he searched her face, “you look so much like your mother.” He was soft, and his distance was closed. 

Sansa snapped her fan up _again_ as his face drew too close to hers. She stared into his eyes, and she glared. 

“ _Illuminating_ chat, Uncle.” She moved around him, fan snapping as she gripped it tightly. 

He grabbed her wrist once again and Sansa’s hair prickled along her skin. 

His fingers were slow to move her glove down the length of her arm, and Sansa hated him for touching her bare skin. 

“Sing for me.” Petyr whispered, and Sansa could feel her skin crawl at the thickness of his breath. 

“I would rather not.” She tried to take her hand back from him, but his grip was tight. Though it slipped as her glove was silk. 

“You’re too beautiful to not have been claimed by now, Sansa.” His eyes were shadowed, and fear gripped her throat.

That was enough. Sansa stomped down on his foot hard with her heeled shoes, pulling her hand and arm from the glove as she spun around quickly and ran for the door. 

She was out with a loud bang from the shutting door and almost back into the ballroom when Petyr exited the room with a limp, scuffed shoe, and a murderous glare. 

* * *

Here she was, pushing past groupings of people with one ungloved hand to get away from a man who she was worried would do more than just look down her bodice. 

She hated him, this clothing, and this ball. 

“Father,” she found him finally in his study, he was talking to an old friend who she already forgot the name of. It looked to be only the two of them; Sansa was flustered, cheeks aflame and hair in a bit of disarray. She curtsied to the two men as they shared a drink together. 

“Yes, my dear?” her father was a patient man with a level head. Though she couldn’t tell him of what had transpired between her and Petyr Baelish, not with so many ears. “I’m glad you’re here actually, a gentleman has come forth and asked me permission to court you.” 

“I-I’m sorry?” She stuttered out; his eyebrows furrowed. 

“Where on earth is your glove?” 

“Oh- that, yes, somewhere. I came to ask your permission to retire early for I do not feel well, I must have lost it in my daze.” 

“Ah, you and your sister both.” He had sighed and swirled his amber liquid into his glass. “I’ll grant permission once you give me your answer to this gentleman.” 

_Yes_ , anything. Sansa stood curiously, ready to blast whoever it was and be done with this damned ball. 

“He’s a military man, high ranking from my understanding. A decorated war hero as well.” 

“O-Oh?” Sansa’s heart thrummed; curiosity spiked. “How fortunate, to have captured the attention of one such gentleman.” 

“His name is Sandor Clegane, he told me how he was taken with your manners, grace, charm, and singing.” 

Sansa’s heart sang then, she tried not to feel elated at the idea. He came forward for her _hand_. He didn’t want to jump straight to marriage he wanted to court her properly. 

“I had the pleasure to meet his acquaintance.” She bowed her head slightly, not wanting to seem too eager about the idea of him. 

He, who immediately takes her attention away from her fears; he, who didn’t know the weight off her shoulders he provided. 

He, who was sitting nearby but she hadn’t noticed. 

Her father knew though and he was searching for a more definitive answer than what she was providing now. She fiddled with her glove, feeling naked in her dress without the other. 

“Sansa, I need an answer.” Ned told her and she sighed, she hadn’t felt this nervous before. 

Her cheeks flamed at the thought of admitting her interest out loud. Robert Baratheon chuckled loudly. “Why, she’s blushing like a virgin bride!” 

“Shut it.” Ned remarked. 

“We had a lovely chat, you know.” Sansa said then, looking up at her father and hoping he knew what she meant. 

“So, he can hold a conversation, marry him now.” Robert spoke up and Ned shot the man another glare. The larger man held up his hands before he served himself more whiskey. 

“Sansa, I can’t keep tossing possible suitors aside.” 

“No, Father!” Sansa stepped forward, she was quick in her argument and held her tongue. Ned gestured for her to continue. “That’s not what I meant; I would be more than happy to accept his courtship.” 

Ned blinked in his surprise but then raised his glass. “Well then, that is a cause worthy to toast to.” 

“Your daughter finally has a proper suitor.” Robert remarked and Ned rolled his eyes. 

“Now to get the second one married off.”

“You have a second daughter?” 

* * *

“So, are you to tell me what happened to that glove there?” Sandor’s voice caught her off guard, but she didn’t jump. She smelled him before she heard him, he had a natural musk that mixed with his liquor and smoke and it was him. 

Him, who she had just met that evening; him who had stolen her heart so fully and unexpectedly. 

“I don’t know if you want that answer.” Sansa said quietly, the ball had quieted but was still active, though as it got later into the evening more and more guests had been leaving or claiming guest bedrooms. She wanted to tell him, but she was still a bit overwhelmed by... everything.

The two had found their way onto the balcony once again, flurries of snow had gathered on top of the stone and the snow fall fell into the silence of the night as the two stood on the balcony staring at one another— their breaths coming out in puffs around each other. 

“Then at least get rid of the other one.” He told her gently, bringing his hand palm up for her to place her hand in. She stared down at it, then back up at him. The contrast between him and Petyr was astounding; Petyr was a man who saw women as lesser; Sandor saw them as people— he has a dislike for all people, so in his eyes that made them equal. 

Could she be happy with a killer as a potential husband? She placed her gloved hand in his bare one and he gently closed his fingers over her hand. Her hand which was so small and slight compared to his. 

With the gentleness and the permission he asked of her as he removed her glove; the silk gentle against her skin that prickled against the exposed cold air. Sansa decided that _yes_ , she could be happy if he continued being this gentle; abrasive with his language; and continued to protect her. 

“If I may be so bold..” she started, her voice low. Snowflakes kissed her cheeks and melted against the warmth of her skin, his free hand came up and carefully wiped them away. Her eyelashes fluttered closed as he cupped her cheek once again. 

“You may be as bold to me as you desire, Little Bird.” 

Sansa dearly liked that name, though she liked his openness even more so. It started with a soft pull, and with a step back and away from the light he followed softly, slowly. His hand still in hers she guided them, her walking backwards but their eyes never strayed. She continued to move away from the open doorways where light was pouring through and into the shadows where she had been hiding just hours before. 

She was against the wall again, though he was over her this time. Her back was against the cold stones, and his palm close to her head as he was leaned over her. Their breath continue to come out in small clouds, though they got thicker as their heat mingled in the cold winter air. 

Sandor’s other hand found its way behind her back and pulled her close. “Kiss me.” She was bold. 

“How could I ever say ‘ _no_ ’ to you.” He was weak to her. 

**Author's Note:**

> Arya was supposed to make another appearance but I decided not to add her as it interrupted the already weird flow of the story. Sorry it's so long! Or, you're welcome? Either way, Merry -late- Christmas!
> 
> Hope you guys enjoyed it!
> 
> If you guys liked the story you can head over to my profile to see how you can support me :) Thanks for reading!


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